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@TwitterGirl

Tornado whips through Mississippi trailer park, causes three million dollars worth of improvements.

Yeah, that’s the tweet which got me fired. Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you know that it made me America’s most polarizing figure overnight. I, Cassidy Shea, former network reporter (handle: @TwitterGirl) whose stories included a snarky attitude that attracted more than one million followers, let her 200 IQ ass do the talking once too often. Who knew that one hundred and fourteen characters could sink my career like a stone, but, then again, when something goes viral on the Internet… well, the thing whipped around the country faster than the tornado that inspired it.

Oh, and before you think I’m some insensitive New York snob who makes fun of those less fortunate, let me remind you of the follow-up story that hardly anyone saw. That tornado only touched down for a minute and it wiped out an abandoned trailer park that was about to be bulldozed by the government for a pork barrel project. It actually saved the feds millions in demolition costs and enabled them to start construction early on the desperately needed Museum of American Macramé. (Slogan: ‘Got Knots?’) Not one person was injured by the tornado, nothing else was damaged, nobody was left homeless. It simply whooshed a bunch of ramshackle mobile homes outta there and was done. But nooooo, you didn’t pay attention to that story, did you? You had the same knee-jerk reaction as the network president, who was deluged by angry tweets from flyovers (a network term for people the airlines zip over between New York and Los Angeles.) So even though I got canned three days ago, Twitter Girl still gets bushels of nasty comments collected in one convenient location by a very genteel hashtag:

#FireTheRedheadBitch

Merry Christmas, Cassidy. Enjoy the pink slip in your stocking?

Most of these tweets contain lovely terms of endearment and suggest I perform various impossible anatomical acts that I won’t share. Suffice it to say I will never be able to set foot in the State of Mississippi again, which won’t exactly break my heart. Or, more importantly, a television station. Which will.

So for the first time in my professional career, I have absolutely no idea what to do with the rest of my life.

“Hey, Caz, come look at this!”

The voice you hear belongs to my twenty-five year old kid brother Sam, with whom I share a home here on Staten Island, often called the forgotten borough of New York City. He’s been a saint through all this, compiling all the nice tweets and direct messages of support so that the redhead bitch might cheer up during the holidays. Every night after dinner he cuts and pastes them into one document, prints it out and makes me read them aloud. But with three days to go before Christmas, I’m unemployed and not in the mood. I shuffle down the hall and find him rolling toward me in his wheelchair, iPad in his lap. “Sam, you don’t need to keep doing this. I’m okay, really.”

He smiles, making the dimples in his lean face pop. His green eyes brighten as runs his fingers through his mop of black hair to get it out of his face and points at the screen. “Caz, you really need to read this.”

I roll my eyes. “I just want to forget about it, Sam. Look, I appreciate what you’re doing—”

“I think it’s a job offer.”

His words make my jaw drop. For the past few days I’ve been radioactive, so much so that my agent dropped me right after she told me my television career was toast and I had not only burned every bridge but napalmed them down to the molecular level. “Some television station wants to hire me? You’re kidding.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not a station.” He hands me the tablet and I read a direct message sent to @TwitterGirl:

Cassidy, your voice mailbox is full and need to talk. We have a position for you in the campaign. - Frank Delavan

My eyes widen and I feel myself smile for the first time in days.

Sam is wearing his eyebrows-up-I-told-you-so look, which I get a lot since he’s much smarter than I am. “So, Twitter Girl, still pissed at me for reading your mail?”

I hand back his iPad, lean down and give him a hug, then muss up his hair like I did when he was little. “Hell, no. I owe you big time. You know who Frank Delavan is?”

He nods. “Duh, my sister works in the news business. Of course I do. He’s Will Becker’s point man. And apparently he wants you to be a part of the team.”

Me. Twitter Girl.

Working for the Will Becker. And unless you’ve been living under that same neighborhood of rocks for a while, you know he’s America’s most eligible bachelor and odds-on favorite to be the next President of the United States.

My euphoria is interrupted by the doorbell. I run across the living room to answer it, as I already know it’s my boyfriend Jamison back from a long trip to China. I’ve barely been able to get in touch with him since I got canned and now I can’t wait to share the good news. While Sam has been doing his best to comfort me, it’s brotherly love, and I really need a hug from my significant other. (Well, okay, more than just a hug.)

When I open the door I see that he’s carrying something other than a Christmas gift. It’s a metaphorical box of relationship coal for my stocking as a peek inside tells me it’s my stuff from his apartment. My smile disappears.

“Hi,” he says, looking at the box he’s holding instead of my face.

“What’s this?” I ask, even though my romantic GPS has already told me.

Your relationship has hit… a dead end.

Recalculating…

He walks inside, accompanied by a blast of frigid December air and I close the door. “I’m… uh…”

I bite my lower lip and feel my emotions well up. He’s still not looking at me and I’ve been around the block enough times to know why. “You’re breaking up with me?”

“I’m sorry, Cassidy.”

“This why you didn’t get back to me?”

No response.

“Look at me, dammit.”

He looks up and I see very little emotion in his eyes. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since… you know. The incident.”

“And?”

“I… don’t think I can be with someone who is disliked by so many people.”

In a flash my emotions switch gears. Upset to pissed off. My blood pressure zips past elevated, leaves dangerous in the rear view mirror and goes directly to Irish-girl-wanna-hit-someone level. I see Sam wheel to the edge of the living room and peek around the wall as he’s obviously heard the conversation and is standing by in case I need him, which I will shortly. I slowly nod and fold my arms. “Wow. And here I thought you came over to support me. Alas, I incorrectly assumed you had a spine.”

“The people at the firm today…” He shakes his head as his face tightens. “God, it was just brutal what I went through.”

“What you went through? Excuse me, but are you actually playing the victim card here?”

“Cassidy, my reputation is at stake. How many clients will want to hire me if I’m in a relationship with someone like you.”

Like me? LIKE ME???

His words push me over the edge and send Sam heading in my direction. I yank the box from his arms, put it on the floor, open the door and point out at the street. “Get out.”

He reaches out and takes my shoulders but I twist away like his hands are on fire. “Cassidy, don’t take it personally—”

“You heard my sister,” says Sam, rolling to a stop a few feet from Jamison and glaring at him. “Get the hell out of our house. Now.”

My boyfriend looks at my brother, who was a six-foot-two black belt in karate before the accident and has tremendous upper body strength from life in the chair. Jamison knows Sam would have no qualms about kicking his ass. He nods and turns back to me. “Well, know that I wish you the best.”

“Yeah, right,” I say, as he heads out the door. When he’s on the way to his car I turn to look at Sam who has a gleam in his eye. He cocks his head at the pile of snow on the porch.

“Do it, Caz.”

I know exactly what he’s thinking. I step outside, grab a handful of the white stuff which has almost turned to ice, pack it into a ball, rear back and fire. It nails Jamison in the head.

“Ow!” He turns around. “What the hell was that for?”

“That’s for the snowball’s chance you ever have of coming back to me!” I flip him the bird, throw in the Italian salute for good measure (that’s the hand slapped in the crook of the opposite elbow, for those not versed in Sicilian sign language), step back inside, slam the door and get a high five from Sam.

“Feel better?” he asks.

“A little.” I feel my eyes start to well up. “Not really.”

Sam reaches his arms up, I lean down and accept his warm hug. When we break the embrace we start the rehab ritual, which, unfortunately, I have gone through too many times.

Like I said, I’ve been around the block known as Breakup Square.

He rolls into the kitchen, I follow him. He reaches into the freezer, grabs a pint of Haagen Dazs rum raisin and hands it to me, already sitting at the kitchen table with a spoon. He wheels his chair next to me and starts stroking my hair. I lean my head on his shoulder as I savor the rich ice cream.

Sam kisses the top of my head. “Hey, wait till he finds out you got another job.”

And wait till he finds out who I’ll be working with.

***

“Yo, Twitter Girl!”

The words from a young hardbodied bike messenger greet me as I emerge from the cab in Brooklyn. I smile and wave at him as he pedals by, slows down to check me out head to toe, and returns a sexy grin. (If I didn’t have an important meeting I’d grab a CitiBike and go after him.)

I head into the seriously out of the way tavern and pause a minute so my eyes can adjust to the very dim light. I walk past the ancient oak bar, empty except for a burly bartender wheeling in a keg, and spot Frank Delavan at the last table near the kitchen door. He stands up, much shorter than he appears on television, maybe five-six, and extends a hand. “Cassidy, nice to meet you. Thank you for coming.”

I return the handshake. “Thanks for inviting me.” I take a seat and adjust my chair as I take a look at the New York sports photos that cover every inch of paneled wall space. “This place is a little off the beaten path for you, huh?”

“Well, I thought in light of the publicity you might want to keep a low profile.”

“That’s not really possible when you’re a six foot tall redhead who’s been on network television for seven years, but I appreciate the thought.”

He laughs a bit. Delavan has a nice smile which goes well with his short and portly look, but I know his reputation as a gunslinger. He may look like a bald, middle-aged lawn gnome, but every politician wants him in a foxhole. “Well, the food’s excellent here. I actually try to get by once a month. This is one of the city’s best kept secrets. I grew up down the block. Used to come here as a kid for the cheeseburgers and never stopped.”

A young waiter arrives at our table, hands me a menu, and his eyes light up with recognition. “Hey, you’re Twitter Girl!”

I put my palms up and shrug. “See what I mean?” I say to Frank.

“Nice to have you in our restaurant,” says the waiter. “For what it’s worth, I thought you got a raw deal from the network. I sure miss those tweets. You’re funny as hell.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, I wish you’d start again. Anyway, I’ll give you guys a few minutes to decide.” He turns and heads back to the kitchen.

“See,” says Frank, dark eyes gleaming. “Not everyone is mad at you.”

“Nah, only about four hundred thousand people. And everyone in the state of Mississippi.”

“Well, I’m not one of those people. And neither is my candidate. He’s a big fan.”

“Really? Will Becker’s on Twitter?”

“Yep.”

“I thought politician’s accounts were actually managed by staffers.”

“Most are, but he actually likes being in touch with real people. He feels it’s more accurate than an opinion poll and it’s instant. Anyway, he loved your television stories and your Internet sarcasm. That’s why I asked you here today. You have a unique talent the campaign needs.”

“Not sure I understand.”

“Cassidy, I don’t know where your political views lie…”

“Well, I’m one of those old school journalists who actually keeps my opinions private, so I’m not gonna tell you. I know it’s fashionable to be biased, but that’s not me.”

“That’s very admirable in this day and age and the Senator will respect that. But he’s hoping you like him enough to join the campaign.”

“Let’s just say that considering his views I wouldn’t mind working for you. But I’m not sure you need someone who’s toxic with half the general public for your press office.”

Frank leans back in his chair and folds his hands in his lap. “That’s not the position we have in mind for you. And, as I said, it’s your unique talent we need. In fact, it’s a position that’s never existed in a campaign, and you’re the only person who could do the job. This new digital world offers interesting opportunities. If you don’t accept our offer for this position, one will not be made to anyone else.”

Now I’m getting confused. “I’m not sure where you’re going, Frank. If you don’t want me for your press office, what would I do? Produce videos?”

“We need Twitter Girl.”

I furrow my brow. “Okayyyyyy…”

“We need your unique brand of snark. Those wicked, sarcastic one liners that can cut people down to size and go viral. You may have lost four hundred thousand followers the first day after that tweet but you’ve picked up a quarter million new people since. Sarcasm is a valuable currency on social media. We want to hire you to do what you did for the network, only your targets will be the people we’re running against. We could spend millions on TV ads but 140 characters from you could be more effective, cheaper and a lot faster. And let’s face it, politicians are fair game. You couldn’t possibly offend anyone.”

“And those targets you mentioned would eventually include the current President.”

He nods. “Assuming the Senator wins the party primary. But until he does, there are a host of candidates challenging him who need to be taken down a notch by Twitter Girl. And of course, the President will need constant tweaks along the way while we’re going through primary season.”

“Your candidate is a stone cold lock for the nomination.”

“No such thing. You never know what sort of land mines will explode.”

“C’mon, Frank. He’s never had a scandal and just got named to a certain magazine’s most beautiful people issue. Can’t say I disagree with their judges.”

His face turns serious for a moment. “Still, there are plenty of wild cards in the deck you can’t anticipate in politics. A lot of people still might feel funny electing a President who’s single.”

“Yeah, but he’s a widower. He didn’t get divorced. Big difference. The man can’t help it if his wife got sick and died. And plenty of women would want to vote for the country’s most eligible bachelor. Or date him. Think about it, you go from dinner and a movie to First Lady. It’s the American version of marrying a prince. The only thing we don’t have is Buckingham Palace.”

He smiles and nods. “So, you get that part, huh?”

“I’m a single woman, he’s unattached, and, no offense, the man is smoking hot. Hell yeah, I get it.”

I almost regret saying that but Frank laughs as he reaches for his water. “You’re certainly not subtle.”

“Hey, you want Twitter Girl, this is what you get.”

“Good, because that’s the attitude we want. But Becker doesn’t need a girlfriend right now. He needs a Vice President of snark. Help get him elected and then you can take your best shot at the Lincoln Bedroom.”

***

One hour, two beers and a killer cheeseburger later, I’m seriously intrigued. Frank has laid the cards on the table and they’re all aces.

“There is, however, a catch,” says Frank, as he leans forward.

“Ah, I thought this was too good to be true. What’s the catch? I gotta pay for my own lunch today?”

“Cassidy, the campaign is a long, exhausting road. Even though our main campaign headquarters will be in Manhattan you’ll be away from home a lot, sometimes for a week at a time. From now till November.”

I shrug. “I figured as much. What’s the big deal?”

“I say that because… I, uh… read about what happened with your brother. We didn’t know if you could be away or if… you know. You needed to be here in town all the time.”

I lean back. “Nah, Sam is more self-sufficient than I am. He drives, has a good job. He’s an advertising copywriter. Does all the cooking, grocery shopping. The network already sends me out of town a lot. Or at least they did. Sam is fine when he’s by himself. Honestly, I don’t even notice the wheelchair anymore. He sure doesn’t.”

“Oh, I just thought since you two shared a home.”

“I was twenty-five when my parents died in the accident and Sam became unable to walk. He was fifteen. He needed a legal guardian and extensive rehab so I moved back home. My boss was very understanding and gave me a leave of absence. But he doesn’t need my help anymore for physical stuff. And he’s got some girls he hangs out with if he misses female companionship.”

“That’s good to hear. So, you never wanted a place of your own after he got better?”

“I originally thought I would but the accident made us incredibly close. Before we were always on different wavelengths because of the ten year age difference. We don’t even look alike, except for the green eyes. He got my mom’s black hair and I got the red hair and freckles. But Sam’s like an extra best friend and I wouldn’t want to have any other roommate. Until I meet Mister Right, that is.”

“It’s great that you have such a good relationship with your brother. My sister is the devil’s spawn. I think if you shaved her head you’d find three sixes.”

I laugh, already on the same sarcastic wavelength with Frank. “It’s funny, but originally I moved back home because he needed me. Now I can’t leave because I need him.”

“How so?”

“It not just that he’s my emotional rock and in some ways older than me. Sam’s got a built in bullshit detector. He meets the guys who come to pick me up on dates. Let’s just say he’s saved me from a lot of heartache. The man is an incredibly accurate judge of character.”

“I see.”

“And Sam’s my hero. He went through a whole bunch of surgeries and I know he’s occasionally in a lot of pain, but he never complains and hasn’t let his situation hold him back. I admire him more than anyone I know.”

“That’s nice.” Frank smiles and takes a sip of his beer. “Cassidy, one more thing. I know this is another personal question, and I apologize for asking, but a Presidential campaign is unique. We need your total commitment, so would this job cause any problems with a relationship?”

“It might if I had one. My boyfriend left skid marks last night. Apparently an attorney cannot have a girlfriend who has attained national redhead bitch status.”

“My, how supportive.”

“He shoulda just broken up with me on Twitter. I’m thinking of writing a book. Dumping your significant other in 140 characters or less.”

“Was this a serious relationship?”

“I thought it was. You would think a lawyer would have a set of brass ones and stand up for his girl. But I got even. The coward forgot he’d left a whole bunch of legal documents at my house for some cases he was working on. It made wonderful kindling for the Yule log.”

“I’d better not get on your bad side. Sounds like you’re not exactly broken up over it.”

“Hey, better I find out now than when I’m walking down the aisle. Sam had warned me about him and turned out to be right again. Anyway, that catch of yours is no problem. I am unattached and not ready for another relationship, even if it was Will Becker.” (Yes, my fingers are crossed behind my back. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I lied through my teeth while thinking about having sex with my new boss.)

He nods and smiles.

C’mon, we’ve gotten all the details out of the way. Get to the good part. How much?

“You seriously want to pay me just to be sarcastic? Travel with the campaign and play on Twitter? That’s all?”

He nods. “That’s all. And we’re prepared to pay you fifty percent more than you were making at the network.” He reaches inside his jacket, pulls out an envelope and slides it across the table.

I open it, take out a small sheet of paper and my eyes bug out at the figure, which is exactly fifty percent more than I was making. “How the hell did you know what my salary was?”

He cocks his head to the side. “Really, Cassidy? I do work in politics. Your tax dollars at work. By the way, your return shows you’re very generous with your charitable dollars.”

“Right, I forgot Big Brother knows all.” I pick up the ketchup bottle and look underneath it.

“Problem?”

“Just checking to make sure the condiments aren’t bugged.” I look at the slip of paper again, knowing this is the only lifeline I’m about to be thrown and someone actually wants to pay me a ton of money to be, well, my snarky self online. I can work for Will Becker. I agree on some of his issues and don’t on others, but I wouldn’t have a problem if he were President. I like him better than the current reptilian occupant of the White House. And, of course, there’s that little thing about him eventually needing a First Lady and perhaps he might like a skinny, spunky redhead for that position. “Okay.”

“That mean you’ll do it?”

“Yep. But I don’t want to be VP of Snark. I want to be the CEO.”

“Done.” We shake and I pull out my cell.

“Calling your brother with the news?”

“Not yet. Right now Twitter Girl’s gotta dish out some payback.” I quickly tap the keys on my phone.

#FireTheRedheadBitch

@TwitterGirl The bitch is back. Stay tuned.